


the (un)wanted man

by lizzy_stardust_18



Category: Oklahoma! - Rodgers/Hammerstein
Genre: Angst, Descriptions of suicide, F/M, Fix-It Fic (kinda), Jud Survives, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, all based on daniel fish's interpretation of oklahoma!, all character descriptions reference that production, me rubbing my evil little raccoon hands over this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:49:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzy_stardust_18/pseuds/lizzy_stardust_18
Summary: He should never have fed that damn barn cat. Should never have gone near that farm. Should have done a lot of things different.But he can’t help himself. He never could.
Relationships: Curly McLain/Laurey Williams, Jud Fry/Curly McLain, Jud Fry/Laurey Williams, Jud Fry/Original Male Characters
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	the (un)wanted man

**Author's Note:**

> this began as an idea alix (coniello on tumblr) and I had about jud surviving and it turned into me exploring the idea the 2019 production posits that jud isn't a villain and what that means for the text he says. 13k later, here we are.

He should never have fed that damn barn cat. Should never have gone near that farm. Should have done a lot of things different. 

But he can’t help himself. He never could. 

**_fairview_ **

**_march 9, 1908_ **

It’s one of those days where you can see god rays streaming through the windows, lighting up the dust kicked up from the tavern’s dirty floor. His seat, way at the back, near the window, is the unspoken place where people go if they don’t need nobody poking in their business. Most of the time, people don’t poke in his. That’s why he likes it here. He can keep himself to himself and it’s not gonna brand him the way it used to. He can do the work he’s suited to under open sky without the cramped feeling of a city or the stares of nosy neighbors. No whispers will buzz through the air about him, how he’s strange, how he’s quiet, how he sucks the air out of every room. He’s just there. Almost like a harmless shadow, or a fly on the wall. 

The door creaks open, and in steps a group of men. One of the men, a kind-eyed man with blotchy skin and graying hair, turns and sees him at the back, in his seat you only notice if you know to look for it. They nod to each other, and the man approaches him. 

“Jack,” he greets him, his voice half the volume he uses with other people. 

“Matthew,” he says, speaking louder than usual to compensate for his employer’s right ear, which had been blown out years ago. He notices it in how Matthew tilts his head towards him when he speaks to him, like he wants to look away but he really is listening. It’s an improvement to how people used to look at Jack. 

“Listen, um,” Matthew casts his eyes around the room and then sits across from Jack. “There’s a young couple about a couple miles south. Moved here not long ago, but their barn was just completely destroyed by a lightning strike. A group of us are gonna go down tomorrow and help ‘em rebuild it.” 

“Do they need help?” Jack asks, folding his fingers around his glass. 

“I told them I could bring along my hired hand, since you’re strong but…” Matthew drops his voice to a whisper, “they don’t know nothin about your injury.” 

“I’ll go,” Jack says. 

“Are you sure?” Matthew says, looking Jack dead-on. “Cause I know you can barely keep up with the work you gotta do round my farm. Hate for that coyote bite to start actin’ up while we’re all out there and nobody can take care of you.” 

_Won’t be a change from when it usually acts up_ , Jack thinks, but he swallows the thought. He’s never asked Matthew for help, and he never will. He’s only ever asked to stop working when he’s in pain, a kindness that Matthew grants with a wary eye. 

“I’ll be fine.” He offers Matthew a smile to show his confidence. He knows Matthew doesn’t believe him. Who would? 

Matthew’s eyes search him again, and he sighs. 

“We leave tomorrow at dawn. Make sure to be there.” 

Jack nods, and Matthew claps the table and says “Good man” before walking away to join his friends. Jack looks into his glass and sees his own face reflected there, a dim, paler version of it. He grips the glass and tilts his head a little to hear the conversation from across the room, out of morbid curiosity rather than petty eavesdropping. He can’t help it. Shadows in the corners hear things. 

“I tell you, that couple is strange. I like em fine, had dinner with em, but there’s something about ‘em I can’t place.” 

“The husband is an odd duck. Always walks around like he’s the only man in the world. Talks to his wife all gentle but like neither of them are really there.” 

“If I had a wife like his I’d be _very_ attentive.” An adjusting of the belt is followed by a series of laughs and groans. Jack scowls.

“Don’t be dirty, Slim.” 

“I’m just tellin’ the truth. Purtiest damn lady I ever seen. When she smiles, that is. Other times she just looks grumpy.” 

“Think that’s just a woman’s face when she ain’t simperin’ at you.” 

“What woman ever simpered at Slim?” 

There’s a chorus of laughs at that. Jack doesn’t laugh.He forces the corners of his mouth down. 

“I mean it though. Talk about ungrateful. Walkin’ round in a daze when he got a woman like her in his life? ‘N I know she adores him is the worst part.” 

“That’s the most unfortunate thing. A man could be unwanted and know it, but it’s worse to be wanted and not know it. Man that can’t see love right in front of him is more lost than the unwanted one.” 

Jack looks down and takes a sip of his own reflection. It tastes like whiskey. He decides not to speak for the unwanted man in this discussion. It’s not his place. 

**_claremore_ **

**_august 17th, 1906_ **

_When he was younger, Jack used to think that life was breathed into you by God, that it found you for a reason. But when breath finds him in the carriage, he knows there ain’t no God in the sky. Not a merciful one, at least. Heaven is empty that night. Nothing is watching him gasp or hearing him groan. He’d died on the floor, hadn’t he? Why has the shaking of a carriage, of all things, woken him?_

_“Did you hear that?” a voice murmurs from the driver’s seat._

_His chest blossoms with fresh pain, and he feels his shirt, dried to his skin, soaking afresh with new blood. He lets out a low groan, sounding more like an animal than a human._

_“Lands, he’s alive! Halt the horses!”_

_His vision goes dark._

**_fairview_ **

**_march 10, 1908_ **

The sky is lavender when Jack heads out. He knows it’ll be a lot of work, but the days are still quite chilly, so he piles on layers and wraps a scarf round his face just in case. He finds the others at a wagon, already getting ready to go. He doesn’t have many things with him, so there’s nothing he really needs to pile on. Just the jerky he brought, in case the young couple makes food and ends up making enough for everyone but him. It’s happened more than once on a job. 

He wants to sit by Matthew, but he gets to the wagon too late and he has to squish into a corner and tuck his legs in. The others jostle and laugh, boisterously greeting the full day of community work they have together. Jack just keeps quiet. Matthew doesn’t look at him, although Jack can feel the mutual question between them of how long it’ll be until Jack keels over in pain. He hopes there’ll be some sort of way he can sneak out before his chest begins to seize. The very thought of it makes a small ache form where the wound used to be. 

The wagon rattles its way past a field and they reach a small farmhouse, tucked away in a grove of trees. Jack knows this place, he’s been here before. The old owners were sweet, had smiles for almost everyone. But they’re both elderly now for sure, not the young couple that Matthew described. He sits up as they roll in, and the others jump out of the wagon ahead of him. 

A voice pierces his ears as he disembarks. 

“Matthew!” the voice calls, and his insides turn to glass. “Mornin! Oh, lands, he brought a bunch of boys! Thank you so much, I can’t even begin to tell you.” 

“It’s alright, Mrs. McLain.” 

“Please, just call me Laurey.” 

_A young couple. Mrs. McLain. Laurey. Miss Laurey. Mrs. Laurey McLain._

His insides go from glass to straw. He stands, facing away from the party, but he barely registers his own feet on the ground. He stares blankly into the distance, and his chest clenches. It’s not quite his wound. It’s something worse, like the hollow of his chest is pulling inward and oh god, oh god he can’t breathe now. He can’t get a good breath. He draws a ragged breath in but there’s an obstacle in the way. 

He’s dying. He’s going to die right here. His chest squeezes again and he has to suppress a sob. His limbs shoot with tension, and he places a hand protectively over his wound. As if it would even help him at this point. 

A hand on his shoulder breaks him from his stupor. “Jack?” Matthew asks. Jack turns his head to look at his employer, and recognition breaks across Matthew’s concerned features. 

“It’s that bite of yours already? But you ain’t even worked yet. C’mon, Laurey needs us.”

_Laurey._ She’s right behind him and if he turned around she would see him. She wouldn’t know him, he’s certain of that. But she’s still right there which means _Curly_ is also here and if Curly is here then -- Jack’s chest squeezes again and he bites his lip and begins to shudder. 

“What’s going on with you, Jack?” Matthew asks. 

“It’s --” he gulps.  


_It’s the love of my life, right behind me. She’d see a ghost if she looked at me right now. It’s the man who put this bullet in me. I wish he’d filled me with em so I wouldn’t walk round all full up of empty. I’d just be full up of his bullets, like it should be. Maybe he’ll do that if he sees me. Or maybe he won’t._

“It’s nothin.’”

**_claremore_ **

**_august 19th, 1906_ **

_He opens his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling._

_“He’s awake,” a female voice calls. “Hello? Sir, can you hear me?” He looks up at the nurse, but her features shift too much for him to be able to tell who she is. He can tell she’s young, with big, dark eyes._

_“Where am I?” he slurs._

_“You’re in the hospital. We took care of your wound, but you’ve got an infection somethin’ terrible.”_

_“Am I gonna die?”_

_“You’ll be just fine. You’re just runnin’ a fever.” She touches his head. He whimpers._

_“Miss Laurey…” he whispers before closing his eyes and falling back into the darkness._

**_fairview_ **

**_march 10, 1908_ **

His chest stops seizing as they make their way over to where the folks are chopping wood, but he’s still shot through with pain and tension. Jack trembles as he goes, but he clenches his fists and forces himself to get a grip. The barn is salvageable in its current state, but the roof is so blackened and broken that the men have begun to nail together wooden flats already to set it up. 

Matthew finds work for Jack on the edge of the group, holding nails in place for the men hammering. It works for a moment until Jack realizes how much he’s trembling. Matthew finally has him hauling wood, which he does gratefully, even though his chest begins to protest. 

He keeps preparing for some sort of interaction with either member of the young couple. Laurey isn’t particularly close to the men working, but Jack’s body is still on overdrive, his heart beating twice as fast as usual, the only thought in his mind _she’s here he’s here she’s here he’s here._ How could they have moved so far out here, where _he_ had moved? He could have sworn he’d gone as far as he could to escape them. Maybe they had done the same. 

There runs out of wood for Jack to haul, and even though his chest is screaming, he tries to keep busy. He doesn’t want to let up for a minute, even once, lest his scarf drop and his real face (clean shaven now, he hadn’t expected to see anyone he _recognized_ here) come out. He knows it’s dangerous to play with his injury like this, especially when he could keel over at any moment and then Matthew would drag him aside and put him behind a tree and he’d tell _Mrs. McLain_ that his farm hand has an old injury and she’d go to see him because that’s who she is and she’d see his face…

He makes it through to lunch time before he begins to overheat. The sun is high in the sky, but he resolutely keeps on his multiple layers and his scarf. It’s better this way. But his vision goes blurry halfway through lunch (they did have enough for him, and the men passes plates back, so he didn’t end up greeting Mrs. McLain at all) and he stumbles a bit, sloshing some of his food over onto Matthew, who cries out. 

“Watch it! Hey, Friend, what’s the matter with you?” 

“Nothin,” Jack says. “Sorry.” 

“Hey,” Matthew says, grabbing his shoulder and forcing Jack to look at him. “It’s your chest, isn’t it?” 

“I can keep working.” 

“Nuh uh. I ain’t havin’ you keel over in front of these men, least of all the missus.” 

_Ain’t the first time it’s happened. She’s used to me on the ground._

“I’m fine.” 

“No, Jack. I’m sending you on an errand. And that errand is to walk home and get in bed.” 

“Don’t put me out to pasture, Matthew!” he growls, his voice a hoarse, forced whisper rather than the bellow he used to utter. His body swallows sound now. 

“I ain’t. I’m just tryin to keep you from dyin.” 

_I’m not._

“I won’t die.” Jack sways on his feet as he says it, and Matthew shakes his head. 

“Jack. If you don’t go get some rest right now, I won’t pay you this week.” 

Jack scowls, but he knows better than to argue with his employer. He gulps and nods. 

He ends up not even making it far past the wagon before he ducks behind a tree and leans on it for support and sinks to the ground. His chest is hurting worse than he thought it would, and he keeps gasping for ragged breaths of air. He closes his eyes. He needs to take a breather. Just a quick one. His eyes close, and he guiltily wishes, with buzzing in his veins, for her to come find him. 

A small noise rouses him what could be seconds or hours later. He stirs and looks up and sees a small cat, brown and mottled, with gray streaks in its fur, trotting towards him, mewing expectantly. He keeps still, and when the cat shows no sign of fear, he reaches out and waits for it. The cat approaches him and then nuzzles his hand. 

“Hey there,” he whispers, “hey, was that barn got burnt, was that your home? Well I’m glad you made it out okay.” He scratches the cat’s ears and it meows again. 

“What do you need, huh?” he whispers. The cat mews again and he whispers “you hungry?” He reaches for his bag, and the cat flinches. “Shh, I ain’t gonna hurt you none, don’t worry.” He opens his bag and pulls out the jerky. “Here,” he whispers. He holds it out, and the cat sniffs it before mewing and then nibbling on it. He lets it drop onto the ground and smiles softly as the cat tears into the little piece of jerky. 

“You can have all of it, if you can’t be no barn mouser no more. I bet you’re real hungry.” He takes out the rest of his jerky and lays it before the cat. The cat keeps eating, and he watches with his chin resting on his hands. “I won’t be eatin that. Too weak to help out,” he says bitterly, hugging his own upper arms and rubbing them. It’s still such a cold morning. He gulps and then turns back to the cat, watching it finish eating. He reaches out to stroke it again, but it ignores him. He smiles and whispers “alright, you. I’ll see you around,” and he stands up. The cat looks up at him as he does, and he feels a slight pang. If he has it his way, he’ll never see this lovely little cat again. 

He goes to get up when he hears the unmistakable sound of a pair of voices mixing. 

“They’re just talkin, Curly, no need to get so defensive!” 

“They’re judgin’ me, ain’t they?” 

“Judgin’ you? What would they judge you for?” 

“You know what!” 

“No one here knows about your guilty conscience. Calm yourself.” 

There’s a long pause. 

“That weren’t what I meant. I meant my farming. But good to know you’re still bitter.” 

“Bitter? _Bitter_?” 

“I’m gonna go back and see what else needs done.” 

“Avoidin’ it all like usual.” 

“Laurey. Stop it.” 

“When are we gonna talk about it, huh?” 

“Not today.” 

Jack feels his stomach churn, and he waits for the footsteps to make their separate ways. He prays they don’t come this way and see him. They don’t. He wishes they had. He considers getting up to follow them. He gets up and sees Curly joining a group of men, clapping them on the backs. They’re sharing stories of some kind, and Jack watches, fascinated, until they begin to compare guns. Curly draws his own to compare it and Jack takes that as his cue to walk away with jellied legs. 

He begins to make his way down the road, away from the barn raising, and he’s amazed that he can slip away without anyone noticing. He used to attract stares on account of him being so tall and lanky, but now he can move just about anywhere without anybody taking much notice of him at all. He turns his head to gaze across the cornfield, and he blinks as he really takes it in. It’s just about the saddest-looking cornfield he’s ever seen in his life. He steps closer to it and his jaw clenches. The soil is tilled all to hell and back, and the sprouts are miserable. Not only that, but there are bunches of weeds everywhere. 

Of course the fields would look terrible. Curly only ever knew how to be a cowhand. He was a damn good bronc-buster, but after that he weren’t much more than a singing, strutting fool with absolutely nothing else going for him. And this field is proof of that. How fucking dare Curly. The presumptuous bastard thinks he can just become the very people he mocked and teased for ages. He thinks he’ll do it with any skill. Jack thinks of how Curly looked down on him, how they all looked down on him, at the dirt on his hands from being a hired hand, and he feels a flash of rage surge through him and he grabs a plant by the base and tugs hard with a low growl. It comes away in his hand, and he looks down to see it’s a weed. He reaches for another one, this time going for the actual crops, that’ll show Curly, that’ll show them all to think they’re better than him, but he pauses, and all his will leaves his hand the moment he touches the sad little plant. He can’t bring himself to hurt his actual crops. What the hell is wrong with him? 

He moves his way through, grabbing weed after weed and gathering them into his arms. He doesn’t want any plant corpses piling up in his wake. He makes his way deep into the field, tugging at each plant with the rage that fills him up whenever he thinks of them and how much _better_ they are than he is. But the sun begins to rise in the sky, and sweat begins to build on his brow, and the pricklier weeds begin to poke at his cheek as he leans over to add to their number. He stops to take a breath and looks down at the weeds in his arms. What the hell is he doing? He’s meant to get gone. He shakes his head to clear it of its brief moment of fancy and heads back to the road. 

He makes his way along until he reaches a grove of trees and he places the dead plants at the base of a tree, careful to avoid covering any existing plants with the dead ones. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and heads back, sweat causing one of his many layers to cling to him. 

He can feel the dirt caking on his forehead when he lowers his hand. 

**_sweetwater_ **

**_march 25, 1901_ **

_“What are you doing, Bill?”_

_The hired hand turns around and gives him a big grin from where he kneels in front of the vat of kerosene._

_“Hey there, young man. Just borrowing a bit here. Gonna have me a bonfire tonight.”_

_“You shouldn’t be takin’ that.”_

_“Now where do you get off tellin’ me what to do, huh?”_

_“I don’t--” he begins, but he’s cut off by Bill raising one finger to shush him._

_“Is that a bruise on your cheek there?” Bill lifts a finger to touch his face, and he jerks away on instinct._

_“Ain’t your business.”_

_Bill tuts and his blue eyes fill with what seems to be sincere concern. “C’mon. Ain’t right for folks to treat each other that way.”_

_“It were just a bit of a scuffle.”_

_“I know them fellers bully you.”_

_He gulps. “Ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle. Don’t change the subject. What you doin’ in here takin’ kerosene?”_

_Bill looks down at the vat and shrugs. “Gonna have a bonfire. You know how cold it gets. Sometimes your bed just ain’t enough.”_

_He nods. He understands that one. He thinks of his own threadbare blanket and shudders. He can still feel Bill looking at him, and words come up his throat before he can stop them._

_“Bill, about what you saw with Jessie in the hayloft-- she ain’t stuck on me. We weren’t doin’ nothin, she fell off a bale of hay ‘n I caught her. She been more faithful to you ‘n anything.”_

_Bill pauses, musing for a moment, his expression unreadable._

_He gulps. “I’m sorry, Bill.”_

_Bill fastens a grin onto his face. “Don’t you worry about it none. I’m an understanding feller.”_

_“But I heard that the two of you--”_

_“Why don’t we stop talkin’ bout my woman now? ‘Specially now that she’s done with me.”_

_“She is?”_

_“Well, we’ll see how done she really is. You know women. Always come crawlin’ back to you once they realize what they can’t get no more.”_

_He looks down at his shoes and gulps. His stomach is roiling. He didn’t mean to ruin things for Bill. Everyone likes Bill. He likes Bill. He liked how happy he and Jessie were together. They belong on a poster. He wishes they’d been able to withstand more than a misunderstanding with a teenage farmhand._

_“Hey boy,” Bill says, touching his arm and bringing him out of his reverie, “if you ever need somebody to keep you safe from them bullies, you holler for me n I’ll come. ‘Slong as you don’t tell nobody bout my bonfires.” He winks._

_“It’ll be our little secret,” he whispers._

_“Good man,” Bill grins. “I knew you was like me.”_

**_fairview_ **

**_march 10, 1908_ **

He can’t stop thinking about the young couple. How close they are to him now. How he could walk to their house and knock on the door and maybe they wouldn’t recognize him or maybe they would but oh, oh he could see them, he could watch Laurey throw her head back at something Curly says and he could listen to Curly’s voice, rumbly and a little rough, like something you’d scrub yourself with and come away feeling nicer than before. 

He tosses and turns the night after the barn repair, unable to get the thought of Curly and Laurey out of his head. Them and their terrible field. He wonders how poorly the rest of their farm must be managed. The two years it’s been since he last saw them clearly haven’t made Curly into no farmer. He’s surprised they’re still trying. He’s glad they’re still married, that Curly never turned tail away from Laurey. Jack doesn’t know who would, but still. Curly always had a bit of a streak to him under all his charm that scared Jack down to his core. He always knew he could trust him to do harm, ever since he whispered close to his lips about how easy it’d be if he hanged himself. Clearly he only reserves harm for Jack, though. 

He can’t help himself. He tells himself it’s nothing when he gets up and begins to walk down the road to their house. It takes him less time than he expected to get there, and looking over their fields he feels a sense of peace. He lifts his head and lets the wind blow through his hair and he smiles. He steps into the field and prays he can justify this to himself before he grabs a handful of weeds and begins to tug. 

He doesn’t get home until the middle of the night. He sleeps through the morning. He’s surprised he isn’t fired. He owes Matthew an explanation. But he can’t tell him the whole story, no matter how his eyes press him. He expects Matthew will want to know, want to set him down at the table and talk him through every gory detail of what happened to Jack. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even seem curious. He just seems disinterested. Jack doesn’t blame him. Working out in the territory, you have to be hearty and strong and never complain about nothing at all. Jack tries to be strong, but he ain’t hearty. And now it’s likely that more people will know it. He just hopes word of the weak injured farmhand won’t reach _them._ He can’t bear the thought of either of them finding out that he’s still alive. That’d end him for sure. 

He’ll tell himself anything. 

**_claremore_ **

**_august 21st, 1906_ **

_“I mean, it’s incredible,” the doctor says, laughing and leaning over his bed. “We thought you was a goner for sure. You lost so much blood, then that infection…” the doctor whistles lowly. “You must be invincible or just plain stubborn.”_

_“Weren’t tryin to live,” he whispers weakly._

_“But you did! Stitched ya right up.” The doctor good-naturedly claps him on the arm. “Crazy thing is, that bullet there? It’s still in you. Got stuck in such a way that if we took it out, you’d have bled out for sure.”_

_“I thought I got shot directly in the heart.”_

_“Not directly. Just close to the heart.”_

_He lays his head back on the pillow. Hot tears gather in his eyes and stream down over his ears, wetting his lank hair. “I just wanted to die.”_

_“Well, you didn’t get that wish granted. Sorry, bud.”_

_“What can I do now?”_

_“Well, for now you need to rest right up and heal. What was it you did?”_

_“Farm work. Hired hand.”_

_“You can’t do that no more.”_

_“What kind of work can I do?”_

_“I ain’t sure. Nothin too brutal. You could be a shopkeeper, I guess. If you’re so stuck on farmin’, you can’t do it, at least not for more ‘n a few hours, or that bullet is gonna cause you enough trouble to knock you dead right here.”_

_“Can’t you just help it finish the job now?”_

_“Look uh, son, is there somebody you can send for? A friend to come talk to you? Somebody we can get to tell you’re alive?”_

_“No,” he whispers. “There’s nobody.”_

**_kansas city_ **

**_december 25, 1906_ **

The shop is still open. It’s evening, and the owners have retired for the night, talking about going to a midnight service. Jack overhears them, but he doesn’t try to join in. He isn’t invited, and besides, it’s not as though a midnight service in a little derelict territory church is going to move him very much. He quietly volunteers to keep the shop running. It’s easy work, and he’s good at it. But it’s hopelessly boring when there aren’t any customers, and he isn’t good at talking to them. He’s shy and awkward, and he isn’t good at making eye contact with them. He tries to look at their noses so they can see he’s looking right at them, but that diverts his attention too much. But he’s good at keeping track of stock in the shop, so he keeps working there. The owners don’t seem to like or dislike him very much at all, and that’s fine with him. He isn’t really here to make friends. He’s just here to work until he can get enough money or heal or do...whatever it is he wants to do with the rest of his life. He never really thought too far into the future before, and now with way too much time on his hands, all he can do is think. 

The weeks leading up to the wedding, all he’d been able to think about was his own heartbreak. He rented a little room in an inn and indulgently drowned himself in liquor, lavishing in self-pity and destructive habits. He drank up all his money, thinking all he needed was that suit and then he could get gone. He’d ripped up his pictures. Looking at them after being able to hold a real person in his arms, feel her real lips against his, it was like hugging a newspaper. It was a quiet sort of death, a second heartbreak. All he’ll ever have is a fantasy. So he ripped them up in a rage one night, tearing into each one with tears streaming down his face. When they all lay out in broken piles around him, he sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. 

He’d looked at the pictures, scattered like obscene snowflakes, and wondered at the coy faces in the photographs. Had those women wanted to be photographed like that? Did they want to be looked at? Why had he never wondered? He smooths out a picture of a woman’s face. Her smile, usually so seductive, looks hollow now. There’s something different in her eyes. 

It’s easier to recognize heartbreak when you feel it in your own chest. He curses himself for not recognizing it sooner. 

_See? See how it is?_

“I’m sorry,” he’d whispered to the crumpled piles of paper. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know if he’s apologizing to the pictures of women, or to Laurey, or to himself. Most likely not himself. He didn’t deserve an apology. It was the couple he should apologize to. 

He knew they’d be the death of him when he came back to the social. He hadn’t managed to wander far before he turned back around, the rage and frustration of the moment wearing off into something more dull and painful all at once. He wanted to apologize to Laurey, beg her not to keep him fired, let her know he didn’t mean anything, but he’d never kissed nobody before and he weren’t thinking when he undid his belt and oh god if she let him stay he’d never look at her again but he loves her so much that…

Curly and Laurey were wrapped in each other’s arms on the porch, unaware that Jack could see them. He watched them kiss, and the sound of their happy little noises and laughs rang in his ears like a terrible echo. He knew there was no room for him anymore. He couldn’t make any apologies. 

_You ain’t nothin’ but a mangy dog, and somebody oughta shoot you!_

Somebody ought to. 

Heading into the wedding, he’d felt weightless, giddy almost, before he saw the couple’s faces, which sobered him greatly. He wished they’d let him hold onto that free feeling, the peace of having made his mind up. But they had to give him that little shred of hope, didn’t they? Laurey just had to look at him with a pitying look in her eyes, right before taking Curly’s hand as he shot him. That goddamned couple. 

Heading out from the hospital after everything that happened was like carrying a load on every part of him. He had just wanted to disappear, but he was given life once more, against his will. He resented his heartbeat, resented the pink wound on his chest that kept him inside instead of the wide open fields, resented all of it. 

He’d gotten rid of the suit but kept the tie. He tried to tie it to the rafters several times, gearing up by thinking of Curly’s whispers, close to him, soft and sweet and deadly, like the fruit of a yew berry, but he never managed to do it. He always broke down, or the tie broke, or he felt the tie squeezing around his neck and panicked when he realized he couldn’t breathe. Gettin’ dead as a doornail weren’t as easy as falling off a log, no matter what Curly said. He always curled up after trying to tie the tie too tight, sobbing and holding a pillow, hating himself for how the hairs on the back of his neck still raised when he thought about Curly telling him how purty he’d be at his funeral.

There was never any funeral. Never any flowers. Never any women coming out like termites eating dead wood, talking about how much of a shine they took to him in life. Never any men holding their hats in their hands. Never any Laurey, sobbing over him. Never any Eller giving testimonials about him. Never any hymns sung by Curly in that melodic voice of his. There was only a doctor’s order for him to stay away from farm work for a year and a lonelier room than he’d ever been in as he tried to figure out what to do with no savings. 

He’d headed out of the territory, hitching a ride with some folks headed for Kansas City. They dumped him at the edge of the city, and he’d been bone tired, stumbling as if drunk, hunting for a place to sleep. He’d been ready to beg in the street when a woman asked him if he were alright, if he needed a place to sleep for the night. He told her he did. She’d asked him his name and he wasn’t sure how to answer. He gave her similar initials to his old one. Just with better names. Ones that weren’t his. He called himself “Jack Friend,” and she believed him. 

The shopkeepers had given him a big bowl of soup and a place to sleep on the floor of the shop and when he politely accepted it all, they told him they needed a new person to help out with running things around the shop. None of it sounded like farm work, so he figured his doctor would approve. So he accepted. It was easy work, and he was always good at burying himself in a task. 

He got distracted one day by a bottle of hair colorant though. It promised to darken his hair and beard (he’d lost his razor when he’d tried to die and he didn’t go back for it) and his heart had fluttered at the prospect of changing his appearance so severely. He’d asked the shopkeeper if he could have the price of it taken out of his pay. He’d been given the colorant for free, and he came in the next day with dark hair and beard. He didn’t recognize his reflection in the window, and it gave him a rush and an ache simultaneously. 

He hears the door of the shop open and sees a gaggle of young people enter, giggling and holding hands. He tries to smile at them. He’s been working on his smile. He wants to be friendlier, but he’s still the same hermit he’s always been. But where there used to be a big dark cloud hanging over him wherever he went, now there just seems to be a sign that says “fragile.” People look at him different now. He probably talks quieter than he used to anyway, and when he gets scared or frustrated he bites his tongue instead of yelling the way he used to, the kind of way he would burst out without any sort of control over it. Every time the urge rises within him now, which thankfully isn’t often, he hears a little voice whisper “rattlesnake” and he chokes it all back. He doesn’t want to be that way anymore. Not if he can help it. 

Probably also helps that he don’t have any pictures around anymore. He knows now that women are scared by ‘em, that the pictures speak thousands of words about what men could do, even if the words held false promises. False threats. He’d never really seen an issue with them, he figured since most fellers had em, he didn’t need to make any pretenses about it. But maybe that was what was attractive about them other fellers: they pretended enough to make girls trust ‘em. And they hated him for having it all open, the thing they joked about in the back rooms and over in corners so that the women folk didn’t hear them. He never understood men. He wished he did. 

“Jack!” one of the girls in the shop says, breaking his reverie. He recognizes her. It’s the shopkeeper’s daughter, Helen. She’s a fresh-faced, red-cheeked girl who has a smile for everyone. He smiles at her for a change.  
  


“Helen, what can I do for you?” 

She turns to the boy with whom she’s got her arm entwined. Jack recognizes him as well. He’s her sweetheart, always hanging around the shop, making eyes at Helen when she’s working with Jack. The way he drapes himself over things makes Jack ache, and he’s grateful for the fact that he can’t sing. Not that either of them are as old as the people that Jack thinks of when he sees their dynamic. They’re young and fresh faced. He can’t picture either of them covered in blood. 

Of course, Curly and Laurey had been young as well. Jack is young too, though it hurts to think of it.

“This is Jack Friend, he works with us,” she says to her friends, “Jack what are you still doing here workin’? It’s Christmas Eve!” 

“Closin’,” Jack says and ducks his head. 

“Well close early and come with us!” she says. “We’re gonna head to the edge of town.” 

He furrows his brow. “Midnight service?” 

She laughs. “No, silly! The circus.” 

“They’re playing on Christmas Eve?” 

Her eyes are wide as she nods and she bites her lip. “I hear the Christmas show is the best one of the year. Everything’ll be brighter and more fantastic than usual.” 

Brighter and more fantastic. Normally he shies away from those things. He’s always been a night creature. He guesses it’s just his nature. But the thought of being invited somewhere, even with a group of people a few years younger than him, has his ears perking up like a stray being offered a piece of meat. 

“Will your parents be cross if I close early?” 

She shakes her head. “No,” she giggles. “You can go ahead and close now, if you want. It’ll be fun!” She bounces, and her braids flop up and down. Her sweetheart beams at her. Well, maybe he could join them. 

“Alright,” Jack says, and she grins. 

“The more the merrier!” She looks around her friend group. “Y’all don’t need to buy anythin, right?” 

There’s a collective head shaking. He notices a boy on the edge of the group holding a cake of soap and slowly putting it down to shake his head as well. He shifts behind the counter. 

“Why don’t you come up?” he says in a low call to the boy. The boy smiles gratefully, if bashful upon being seen, and he approaches Jack with his head low. He helps the boy pay. 

“C’mon, Jack!” Helen calls, “Close up soon! I wanna go!” 

He doesn’t quite stick out like a sore thumb in the crowd of young people. Not quite the way he thought he would. He finds himself laughing at their jokes and joining in whenever he can. He’s not a terribly funny man. But he tries, and some of them laugh good-naturedly at them. 

They make their way through the snow-covered streets until they reach an enormous tent. A crowd gathers around the tent, buzzing excitedly. A man hawks peanuts with a booming voice. There’s too many noises, too many people. Jack sticks his hands in his pockets and closes his eyes until he feels a person tugging his arm. He looks. It’s Helen. She’s smiling at him. 

“C’mon, you don’t want to miss the show!” 

They push their way through a crowded arena to take their seats, and the entire place seems to hum with a rumbling energy. He finds himself jiggling his leg along with them, to some invisible rhythm that guides them all. They wait in silence until a man in a red coat steps out, gesturing and shouting. 

The rest of the evening goes by in a beautiful blur. Jack finds himself utterly enraptured, watching a woman effortlessly step on a thin bit of wire high up in the air (he claps in excitement and relief when she makes it), watching a man run around with a lion, watching a clown telling jokes (he laughs a bit too loud but no one actually seems to mind,) gasping at the flying trapeze artists. 

A bear comes out onstage, and Jack’s delight dampens. It looks out at the audience, and when its trainer tries to coax it to perform some banal trick, its eyes seem empty. Like even the sadness got sucked out of em, and now there’s just whatever fluff they stuff in its head instead. A lump rises in Jack’s throat. He doesn’t clap when it’s brought off, or when it’s trammeled away into a cage. 

He doesn’t have long to mourn for the bear, though. A man steps out, wearing a veil. He tilts his head to the audience and Jack can see blue eyeshadow on his eyelids. He lowers his veil and his voice, an angelic lilt, breaks out over the audience. It’s a song called “Silent Night.” It brings tears to Jack’s eyes. The man looks over to Jack’s section, and Jack can swear he’s staring right at him. He makes sure to clap more enthusiastically than ever when the man goes to bow. 

When his head comes up he looks at Jack’s section again. He then grins and tosses aside his veil, and a row of backup dancers enter onstage behind him. He’s wearing very little under the veil, and the performance that follows brings a blush to even Jack’s cheeks. 

**_fairview_ **

**_march 15, 1908_ **

This is the last night he’ll come, he tells himself. He doesn’t really mean to do it. It’s just that their crops are struggling so much, he has to go help. Only right that there be enough food for everyone. And besides, if Curly is going to be terrible at farming, perhaps he needs someone helping out in the middle of the night. Whatever his reasoning, Jack finds his pride tangled up in it all, and he crawls out of bed late after dark and heads off for another night. 

Their field looks much better than before, and they’ve been washing clothes. He can see the clotheslines hanging up. He smiles at the domestic display. He heads towards the house. He’s branched out, gotten braver of late. Gotten closer to the house. He’s thinking of sweeping the stable tonight. It’s a stretch, but he might get away with it if the horses stay asleep or at least calm.

Except he can’t. Laurey is asleep on the porch. He scrambles for a hiding spot, praying she doesn’t wake up before he can hide. He finds a spot beneath the wagon and looks up. He doesn’t mean to watch her sleep. He just sees her curled up, and it’s less than a minute before the door opens and Curly comes out of the house. He’s a wreck, with disheveled hair, an unshaven face, and lines in his face that weren’t there before. Least encouraging of all are his eyes. They’re so sad that they could hold a dead ocean and still be too deep. 

Curly looks over at Laurey and kneels beside her. He reaches out to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I ain’t no husband at all, am I? Can’t even be a good farmer for you.” He caresses her cheek and she stirs. 

“Curly?” she murmurs. 

“Hey, sleepy Laurey. Wanna come to bed? It’s gonna get cold out here.” 

She nods, and he leans over and kisses her forehead before scooping her up in his arms. She wraps her arms around his neck and he carries her inside and shuts the door. Jack sits back on his heels, feeling his stomach churn. He wasn’t meant to see that. He is such a voyeur. He’s a mangy dog. Half of him screams to run away and never look back, but he stays rooted to the spot thinking of how tired they were. He knows neither choice he makes is going to be good for them. But what else can he do now? Just turn around? 

The stable is surprisingly quiet to clean.

**_kansas city_ **

**_december 25, 1907_ **

He sees the man, this time devoid of blue eyeshadow, sitting alone at the bar, nursing a glass of bourbon. He makes his way over and sits several seats away. He doesn’t want to sit too close lest he frighten the man off, but he looks over at him anyway. The man casts an amused look Jack’s way and grins. 

“Yknow, it’s hard to start a conversation from three seats away. Come closer,” the man says, beckoning him with long fingers. Jack hesitates for a moment but then gets up and slides into the seat right beside the man and looks down at the counter, tracing a knot in the wood with his finger. 

“You sing purty,” Jack says, and casts the man a little smile. The man’s features split into a broad grin. 

“Why thank you,” the man says. “Good to know I still got my pipes workin. Else I’m out of a job.” 

“Your job is safe,” Jack chuckles. “You were -- I mean, it were enchanting, the whole thing.” Jack feels a blush creeping into his cheeks and he tries to stifle it. 

“Well ain’t you a flatterer. What’s your name?” 

“Jack Friend.” 

The man splutters with laughter. “Friend? That your real last name?” 

Jack hesitates a moment. “No,” he whispers. The man grins. 

“Good! Knew you weren’t boring.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“I’m called Orion.” 

It’s Jack’s turn to laugh, a sudden, short laugh that overwhelms him. “That your real name?” He asks through an unexpected smile. 

“Course not,” Orion replies, taking a sip of his bourbon, “I look boring to you?” 

Jack shakes his head. “You’re about the least boring person I ever saw.” Orion throws his head back and laughs, and his hair catches the light as he does. There’s still a bit of glitter on his brow.

“Good, good.” Orion casts amused eyes on Jack, who suddenly feels warm under his gaze.

“Why you call yourself that?” 

“You know Orion’s belt?”

Jack nods. “One of them constellations.” 

Orion does a coy little eye roll and then grins and drawls “let’s just say my belt comes out at night when I _hunt_.” 

Jack splutters and Orion laughs again, his face crinkling up. “Your face!” Orion cries.

“My face? Your _name_!” 

“I know, I know,” Orion says, tossing his head back. “So,” Orion says, resting his elbows on the counter and shimmying his shoulders a bit, “you liked the show?” 

Jack nods. “It’s a wonderful show,” he says, looking down at the counter again. He sees Orion roll his eyes out of the corner of his own. 

“Of course it’s a wonderful show. It’s the Ringling Brothers’ Circus,” he says with an important tone and a sarcastic wiggle of the hand, “Cause we can’t call it the Barnum and Bailey no more.” Orion rolls his eyes and nudges Jack’s arm and says “C’mon, you, tell me what you think of it really.” 

Jack is silent for a moment. The knot in the counter looks like the eye of the bear. He pictures a bullet flying through the knothole, ending the bear’s misery. “Why were all them animals in cages?” 

“So they don’t get out and bite anybody.” 

“Do they even bite? They all looked so sad.” 

“I’m sure they’d bite if they were let out.” 

“Then why keep ‘em there? Seems dangerous.” 

Orion shrugs. “It’s show business. It’s all danger on a leash.” He takes another sip of his bourbon and the light catches his drink and the glitter on his brow. He looks more bejeweled than before. He turns to look at Jack and grins.

“All them wonders, and you asked about the animals in cages.” Orion leans forward, and his lips purse into a shape more like a fiddle than anything, little dark hairs above them becoming visible. “Are you the kind of man who carries his cage with him?” 

Jack’s heart somersaults. “Can’t think of what you’re talking about.” 

Orion keeps looking at him, searching him with very very dark eyes. A stone drops into Jack's stomach, a similar one to the one he digested the last time a man with such dark, usually kind eyes looked at him up close. “C’mon, tell the truth, you. I know when I can find somebody like me.” 

“I ain’t like you!” Jack snaps. “Didn’t name myself after no fancy constellation.” 

“No, you didn’t,” Orion muses, his lips pursing further, “just made everybody you meet call you “friend.” I’m not gonna pry, but you’ll have to work to convince me you’re better.” 

“I don’t think I’m no better ‘n anyone else,” Jack whispers. 

Orion raises an eyebrow. “No?” 

“No.” Jack shakes his head. “I just ain’t you. All flashy ‘n glittery.” 

Orion’s eyes flicker with amusement. “No. But you got a story. C’mon, tell me. 

Why are you here with a name that isn’t yours?” 

Jack gulps and clenches a fist and unclenches it. He looks down at the bear’s-eye knot. This man is a stranger. He won’t tell nobody if Jack lets him know his secret, the one pressing behind his lips every time he doesn’t speak. 

“I were meant to die,” Jack whispers, “gave the feller the gun n all. He’s a sharpshooter. Showed me how good he is. Trusted him to do it. Only him.” 

“You gave it to him?” Orion’s eyes widen. 

“My gift for him. For his weddin’ party. The gun and the bullet he could use to shoot me dead.” 

Orion’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and then he nods sagely, as though he just worked out some problem in his head. “But you lived?” He presses. 

Jack nods. “Passed out on the floor and woke up in the carriage, got driven to the hospital. Ran out here n changed my name. Bullet’s still in me. Can’t do much farm work no more. Starts hurtin if I push myself.” 

“Show me?” Orion whispers. 

Jack doesn’t know what possesses him, but he looks around the bar to see if anyone is looking. As usual, the answer is no. He nods and undoes the top few buttons of his shirt and pulls the fabric aside to show him the pink, ugly scar. “That’s where it is,” he whispers. Orion reaches out with his fingertips. Jack expects him to ask to touch him, and prepares to say no. 

He doesn’t ask. He also doesn’t touch him. He just whistles lowly and then tilts his head. “Y’know, you could make that a stage act. Change your name to Lazarus. Talk about the second chance you got.”

Jack thinks of the story of Lazarus, how the shortest sentence in his mother’s Bible read “Jesus wept.” Those were the only words necessary to convey the weight of his grief. Any more words and they would have sunk clear through the page. 

_“Ma, why did Lazarus get to come back to life?”_

_“Because Jesus loved him so much.”_

_“If you love somebody enough, can they come back?”_

_“Not us regular folk. Just Jesus and Lazarus. But sometimes people survive incredible things.”_

_“If you die, I’ll tell Jesus I love you enough to make you survive anything and he’ll listen.”_

What a liar he was. 

_“That’s blasphemy, baby. Now hush.”_

Jack stares at Orion, dumbstruck, and he keeps prodding him. “I’m serious,” Orion says, “you could show folks the bullet hole. Make yourself a mint.” 

Jack shakes his head and buttons up his shirt hastily. “No, I couldn’t,” he laughs, “don’t want nobody lookin’ at me.” 

Orion raises an eyebrow. “You asked a man to shoot you on his wedding day in front of the whole party. If you’re not a man who wants to be looked at, I don’t know who is.” 

Jack’s eyes fill with sudden, hot tears. “What do you know about it?” he hisses. Orion fixes him with steely eyes. 

“Much more than you think.” His stare is unrelenting, and Jack finds himself withering beneath it. 

_I knew you was like me._

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking back down at the bear’s eye. It looks like a knot now. Begging for a bullet. 

“Don’t be,” Orion says, waving him off. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” 

“Yes I do,” Jack whispers. “I got a world of sorry behind me.” 

“And I got folks out in Brooklyn who pretend I died of typhus.” Jack casts his eyes up to look at Orion, who shows no hint that the fact even ruffles him. 

“That’s terrible,” Jack whispers. 

“It’s how it is. Everyone in the circus is a stray of some sort. Some by choice, some not.” 

“Which are you?” 

“Choice,” Orion says. “This is my place where I’m free. And I’m not alone.” 

“You’re alone at the bar tonight.” 

“No I’m not,” Orion says, and the smile he fixes Jack makes his stomach flip again, the stone turning over. “I’m more myself with a fake name and glitter all over me than I am with my real name.” 

“You’re lucky. I never been no way that felt right. Or good.” _Except for three seconds at a box social._

“Well, I never said I was good. Just that I was myself. But it does feel some sort of right.” Orion reaches out and Jack’s heart skips a beat. Orion takes a lock of Jack’s hair in his nimble fingers. “Is this more you? This dark color?” 

“How do you know I colored it?” he whispers. 

“Your roots are peeking out,” Orion whispers back, “they’re warm.” Jack inhales sharply and Orion’s eyes, so sure before, peek around the bar before turning back to him, reassuring, and they both take a breath as if to say something before a voice breaks the silence. 

“Orion! You’re needed back at the tent!” 

Orion looks over at the door and rolls his eyes. “Damn new owners keep us on tight leashes. I have to go.” 

“Okay,” Jack whispers, ignoring the urge to reach for Orion’s sleeve and tug on it. Orion finishes his thought for him, reaching for his arm and gently stroking his wrist. 

“Last chance,” Orion says, searching Jack with eyes that are much more moist than when he last looked. “You could still come with me. We could use somebody like you,” he casts his eyes down to Jack’s wrist, “or you could even just come with me now. Spend the night. It’s Christmas. Horrible night to spend alone.” 

Jack’s breath catches, and he pictures it. Pictures going home with this glittery man, probably downing a few more drinks with his circus castmates, and then tumbling into some sleeping bag and laughing together, Orion’s throat and teeth bared in the moonlight. God, there’s nothing holding him back from it neither. Orion’s still standing there, offering him a respite from the constant cold, aching nothing that seems to fill his chest at all times. He could stand up, walk out with this man, and maybe touch that glitter that’s still covering his brow. He could lose himself in this man (or let him lose himself in Jack) and run his fingers through his dark curls. 

Dark curls. Dark eyes. _He loved his fellow man._

Why is he still hesitating? When’s the last time he was close to someone? Really close to them? 

_Slobber over me like a hog, why, you’re gonna do somethin’ about it?_

“I can’t,” he whispers, tears filling his eyes. “I ain’t…” 

“You’re _not_?” Orion’s brow furrows. 

“I ain’t the type who can be _looked_ at. I’m sorry.” He looks up at him, eyes pleading with him to understand. 

Orion sighs and gulps and whispers “alright then.” He then furtively glances around the room and when no one turns to look at the odd pair, he leans down and presses his lips to Jack’s cheekbone. Jack inhales sharply and closes his eyes, soaking in the warmth of him for that precious moment. His nose is brushing Orion’s cheek, he could turn his head and nuzzle into him and bask in him more. But he doesn’t. He just stays terribly still. 

“Merry Christmas, friend,” Orion says with a brave smile, and Jack watches him down the rest of his bourbon. “And a happy fuckin’ new year,” he says, slamming the glass down. He leaves without paying, and Jack swallows the urge to call out to him. What would he even say? ‘Wait for me?’ 

_Weak as an empty bladder._

Jack slips a bill under Orion’s glass. It covers the knot in the wood. 

**_fairview_ **

**_april 2nd, 1908_ **

Curly’s taken up residence at the counter at the tavern. It’s getting harder to avoid him now that he’s a regular. The fellers from the barn repairing seemed to have taken him under their wing, in a way, and Curly’s personality seems to return upon having friends to entertain. It makes Jud warm and also ache inside to think of it. Or to watch it.

It’s not that Jack is trying to run into Curly at the tavern. It’s just that when Curly comes to the counter and Jack is sitting in the back, he has to wait for him to leave before he can leave himself. He can’t exactly get up and brush past him, touch that new jacket he bought a week ago. He bets it feels smooth under his fingertips though. 

He ends up trapped at the tavern for hours, sitting and listening to Curly talk to the other men. For a reasonable person, this would mean that he would stop going. But Jack’s so fascinated by Curly, even after everything. He watches his face crinkle up when he laughs. He watches when his teeth catch the light. He watches his eyes sparkle. And sometimes the urge is so strong, when Curly is leaning over to talk to a friend of his, his elbows right in front of him and his eyebrows raised innocently, that Jack wants to stride over to him and -- what on earth would he even do? Say hi? He’d say hi to the gun in the holster of Curly’s too-snug jeans, and then the job would be done. He’d have two of Curly’s bullets inside him. 

But still. He listens to Curly’s drawling, soothing voice. There’s a lot more of his old fire in him now that he has friends in this town, friends that Jack was never able to make himself but that he’s honestly quite glad Curly has. He hasn’t exactly been _worried_ about Curly -- not when Curly has absolutely everything Jack ever wanted, but still. There’s something of need in how he carries himself now, a shyness to his frame that wasn’t present before in his languidly cocky demeanor. 

“Curly,” Matthew says, “I sure am glad you’re doin’ better. We was all worried about you when you first moved here.” 

“You was the worst farmer we’d ever seen.” 

Curly’s jaw clenches. “Well, I started as a cowman.” 

That’s met with raucous laughter. “Yeah, that’d about do it.” 

“But you’re a farmer now?” 

“Yep,” Curly says, nodding and pursing his lips. “I was strugglin’ at first but I don’t know. I guess I get the hang of things now. Things just seem to,” he smiles, “get done, even when I think I got too much on my plate.” 

Jack looks down at the table. He’s half furious. He’s half thrilled. His mouth doesn’t know what to do. 

“Y’all ever hear of that crazy couple down near Tulsa?” Slim drunkenly asks.

“Naw, I never did,” Curly says, taking a sip from his glass. 

“Couple got themselves hitched, right?” 

“Uh huh,” Curly says, and his head bobs a bit when he says it. 

“Well girl had a lover, right? ‘N he shows up, kisses the bride, and asks the groom to _kill_ him. Brings him the gun ‘n everything.” 

Curly’s shoulders tense and so do Jack’s. How many people had heard? What did these people know? 

“Did the groom do it?” Matthew asks, painfully innocently. Slim nods. 

“Oh yeah,” he says, his eyes wide, high on the thrill of telling the story. 

“Huh,” Curly says, cocking his head. Jack bets he’d lose all his savings to him in cards if he were ever stupid enough to play with him. “Y’know, I did hear that story once,” he says, and there’s a different note to his voice, a cool one that suggests he’s on top once more, but with a cornered animal’s aggression hiding behind it, “‘cept the way I heard it, he weren’t her lover. He weren’t even anything, he were--” Curly’s jaw tenses and he looks down into his glass. “He were just her hired hand.” 

“And then she fired him,” Slim says. 

Curly shakes his head. “Naw, he left of his own accord.” He takes a swig. 

“Where’d you say this happened?” Matthew asks. 

“Tulsa.” 

“Way I heard it, it was Sweetwater,” Curly says, and a corner of his mouth turns up. It’s shining with whiskey. Jack’s insides roil. 

“Weren’t it outside Claremore?” Matthew pipes up. 

“Naw,” Curly says, and his posture is confident once more, “it was Sweetwater.” 

**_sweetwater_ **

**_march 25, 1901_ **

_The flames are licking at the farmhouse by the time he gets there. It’s far too late for anyone to smother it with a blanket. It’s all already burnt to ash and crisps. He can feel the heat of it on his face from a hundred feet away. He gapes, his jaw hanging open at the might of the fire. What on earth happened here? Was it a lightning strike? A wildfire couldn’t do something like this. Unless someone set the fire._

_A neighbor of the family runs up with a pail of water, tears streaming down her face. She looks up at the height of the flames and then sinks to her knees, sobbing, still clutching the water pail with white knuckles._

_“They’s all still inside!” their neighbor wails. “The old man, the wife...that poor little girl.”_

_“They’re all inside?” he whispers._

_“They’s already burnt to a crisp in there by now. Freak fire. Started middle of the night. Came over cause I smelled smoke. Thought it were lightning.” Her body is wracked with sobs. “That poor little girl!”_

_“Weren’t lightning,” he whispers, horrible realization sinking into his stomach. “It was a kerosene fire.”_

_“How do you know that?” their neighbor sobs. “Did you do this? Was this because of you?”_

_He gapes at the height of the flames, of the familiar old farmhouse burning to a crisp before him. A tear streams down his face, and his stomach turns over._

_“Was this YOU?” their neighbor screams, clutching her skirt with one hand. He can’t even answer her, he’s too transfixed by the destruction before him. Another tear streams down his face._

_“I told him I meant nothin’ by it. He wouldn’t--he wouldn’t listen to me. I meant nothin’ by it.” He shakes his head, his lip trembling._

_“Someone help!”_

_More people are gathering now. Tears continue to stream down his face._

_“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. He shakes his head and turns. He comes face to face with Bill, whose blue eyes are as wide as saucers._

_“What are you doin’ here?” Bill cries out. “What’s happened to Jessie? Who set this fire?” he yells. He can practically smell the kerosene on Bill still. But he’s still too frozen to say anything, and Bill shoves past him. “Jessie!” Bill screams, and he knows that he’ll be a dead man if he stays here any longer._

_“You did this!” Bill yells with faux fury in his eyes. He grabs him by the shirt and hauls him up, and he cries out. “You killed my Jessie!”_

_“No, no, I--” Bill shakes him and the look in his eyes is like if a bull’s brain were frozen to ice, but still charging regardless. Blind rage with calculation underneath. He will die by this man’s hands. Bill shakes him again and one of his hands raises to hit him._

_He kicks out wildly and hits a soft spot and Bill cries out and drops to his knees. A wild sort of animal instinct takes over him, and he kicks at Bill’s shoulders, anywhere he can get at him._

_I know them fellers bully you. You just holler. You know women. Sometimes your bed just ain’t enough. ‘Slong as you don’t tell nobody bout my bonfires._

_“I hate you!” he sobs, and he smacks Bill on the head, once, twice, over and over until Bill’s covering his head to protect himself. He feels arms wrapping around his middle and hauling him off of him, and he wriggles out of the person’s grip. He sobs and looks around, realizing that in the heat of his altercation, more people have arrived, all of them witness to the event, but not the truth. He gulps and bolts, leaving the farmhouse to burn and Bill to sob._

_He can hear the whisperings now, about the violent young farmhand who ran from the scene of the crime, the arsonist, the one who was so stuck on her, the one what wanted the Bartlett girl so bad that if he couldn’t have her then no one could._

_It’ll be our little secret._

_I knew you was like me._

_He runs to the nearest tree and hurls._

**_fairview_ **

**_april 30th, 1908_ **

They’re out on the porch, and the night turns indigo around them, blending into the soft blue of her dress. She’s looking up at him, her dark eyes unafraid and full of stars. “Please,” is all he needs to whisper before their mouths meet, and her hands go to his shoulders. He can feel her nimble fingers through his shirt, and he presses closer. He’s greeted with soft noises of approval against his lips, and he pulls her flush against him. 

“You’re my everything, Miss Laurey,” he whispers before kissing her again.

She breaks the kiss and looks up at him, and her eyes aren’t angry. But she shakes her head and whispers “you’re nothing” and then releases him, stepping backward. He feels the floorboards beneath him give way, and he stumbles to try to keep his balance. But he falls through, and she watches him go with her hands hanging at her sides. 

He jolts awake, panting shallowly. Cold sweat runs down his brow. He takes in the dark room around him. It’s still night. The moon is high in the sky, and the square shape it leaves through his window glows from the floor. He buries his face in his hands. Why is it always her? Why does he always dream of her? 

He drags his hands down his face and tries to swallow a sob. He doesn’t want to go back to them. Not now. Not after everything they’ve all gone through. He knows they have to feel watched. He’s gotten reckless. He’s too obvious. One night he’s gonna head over and Curly’s shotgun will be waiting on the porch with an angry Curly behind it. But like a man possessed, he puts on his shoes and heads out into the moonlight, leaving his empty room behind him. 

His intentions are no longer even clear to him. He did it the first few times out of anger with Curly’s arrogance _how dare he assume he could do this_ but it had faded, and he’d begun looking for things to fix beyond the obvious. He was going completely out of his way, and he knew they were catching wind of his actions. The beginnings of his interventions were subtle enough that Curly could have just forgotten doing them, but now he’s dusting off machinery that hasn’t been touched in months, cleaning out rat infestations, checking on crops, protecting them from frosts when necessary, sorting hay bales that weren’t sorted during the day. 

He’d convinced himself it was revenge, at first. He dug into his soul and found something that looked a bit like hatred and he told himself that he was working for that part of him rather than anything else, that he was playing a long game. He even carried matches with him on his way to their farm several times, just to prove he could light the place up if necessary. But once he got there, he forgot all about them. He was forced to admit he wasn’t surveying the place for places to pour kerosene, that he’s somehow more sinister and pathetic than that. If he has it in him to do that sort of violence, someone else put it there first, and trying to pass it on only gets him a bullet in his chest. 

He just wants Curly and Laurey to be alright. On the nights when they’re still awake, he’ll sit far enough to be unseen and listen to the distant sound of their laughter. He wants to soak himself in it, bask in their warmth from afar. He wishes it were revenge he wanted. That would be simple, it’d be what everyone would expect from a revenant like him. They’d watched him die in front of them, Curly had shot him, he should get _even_. But on nights when he sees a rake sitting in the barn with the spokes facing up, he’ll picture either of them stepping on it and the mere thought of it will make him flinch. He’ll turn over the rake. 

_How’d you get to be the way you are?_

_It’ll be our little secret._

_A fella wouldn’t feel very safe in here with you...if he didn’t know you. But I know you._

On nights when it’s almost unbearably cold, he’ll press his back to the wood of the wall of the house and try to feel like maybe he belongs there, like maybe one night he can knock and they’ll let him in. He knows if they saw him do it, they’d be terrified. But he supposes that if they never find out, then no real harm is done, right? The only thing he’d ever do is scare them, and if he doesn’t do that, then...

_Why don’t you just knock?_ A voice asks him. Another asks why he doesn’t just run and never look back at these people who will never care for him. Another wonders why he doesn’t ruin their crops. Another asks why no one ever wanted him. 

The loudest one wishes he could go back and change himself before the wedding. It asks why he didn’t see how much he scared her. It asks what he could have done.

_You’re better. So much better._

He shivers a little. The air is getting colder as it approaches harvest season. He wraps his arms around himself before getting up, deciding not to freeze. His bag, which he slings over his shoulder now, clinks from the different tools inside of it, and he grimaces. He’s got all sorts of things in there now, even though it was originally just a couple of tools. He’s even taken to bringing pen and paper, even though he knows he’ll never have occasion to write any kind of note for them. He can’t make himself known. Not only is he unwelcome, but he overheard Curly at the bar once talking to his friends about how he sleeps with a gun. He doesn’t blame him. It’s frightening out in these parts of the territory at night. It’s why he tries to be so quiet. Laurey doesn’t need to hear his footsteps anymore than she had to before the wedding. (He’d never meant nothing by the pacing under the tree, just clearin’ his head, trying to be near to the house. But she couldn’t have known that.) 

He doesn’t know what will need done tonight. Maybe he’ll just go clean the henhouse again. He’s getting almost too daring. He can’t believe he’s gotten away with dusting their machinery. The clinking would have roused him. But he supposes their sleeps are fraught enough as it is that they must really go down when they get a full night of sleep. He knows Curly wakes up sobbing sometimes. He hates himself for knowing it. He wishes any part of him was satisfied with Curly suffering. It’d be an easier thing to feel than to sit there, his hand over his own wound, wishing he could go in there to tell Curly not to cry. When he goes back to his own room, he’ll sometimes lie there and stroke the skin around where Curly shot him and he’ll smile at the thought that he walks around with something of Curly’s gift inside him. Then he’ll sob. He always oversleeps on a night like that. 

He passes their fields. There’s not much to be done there. The corn harvest has passed. They’re getting better at farming, he notices. Soon maybe they won’t need any help except the kind they get during the day. The thought makes his chest ache, but he knows it’s what’s right. He’ll eventually need to either let go of them or introduce himself. He doesn’t want either option. He wants this secret thrill, of getting away with something, of getting to see them smile in town when he ducks behind the corner of a building. They look happier now. They hold hands when they walk in the street. Laurey’s started to come with Curly to the bar. They laugh together with their friends. Jack’s stopped going, but he can see them through the window. Laurey’s smile is so big, and her face doesn’t quite look so tired. 

He arrives at the grove of trees and he takes his place behind one, never the same one on any given night. He needs to make sure they’re asleep. He can’t see any lights on through their windows, but he knows sometimes they get spooked by strange noises at night. The last thing he wants to do is scare them and prompt them to look out the window on his guilty, unchanged face, obscured as he tries to make it. 

He sits down on the ground and looks at his hands. It’s always best to wait for a bit before deciding to go do anything. He always does small chores, but sometimes it reduces him to gasping pain on the ground, and he’s the luckiest man on earth that neither of them have ever found him like that, clutching at his chest and sobbing. 

He’s broken from his reverie by the press of a tiny, fuzzy head against his hand. “Hey,” he whispers and scratches the little cat behind the ears. “I don’t have no food for you tonight, sorry, little friend. I’ll bring you some next time.” The cat purrs and lets him stroke it for a moment longer before stretching out on the ground. He gently runs his hand over its back, and its tail slips through his hand as it walks off, back towards its home in the barn. 

He chews on his bottom lip. He’s not getting the same kind of rush from being here, but he knows once he’s done doing whatever small chore he does every night he’ll be grinning all the way home. He gears up to get up and he places one hand on the tree behind him. His chest feels fine for now. He might take it easy tonight anyway. 

He’s halted by the sound of a door creaking. He freezes. _Shit._ He turns around very very slowly and peeks over the edge of the tree trunk. He can barely see the door. Someone’s coming out of it, though. He doesn’t dare to breathe as a figure exits the house, and his heart leaps into his throat as he realizes it’s Laurey in her white nightgown. She’s got her arms held out in front of her, and her eyes appear to be closed, even though she’s spinning around. With a jolt, he realizes she’s dancing, her partner invisible in her arms. She’s got a small smile on her face, and he watches the languid-but-speedy pace with which she moves and his mind begins to race. 

Does she dance like this with Curly? He can remember dancing with her like it was yesterday. The feeling of her hand in his, his hand on her waist...it’s all burned into his head. He couldn’t forget about it if he tried. She lets her partner twirl her, and his lip begins to tremble. It’s likely Curly she’s dreaming of, but if it’s not...if it’s him...he wants to run to her. He wants to catch her in his arms and gently wake her up and ask her for a real dance. He wants to say he’s sorry for scaring her, always, he’s sorry for scaring her now, he’s so so sorry, he only ever wanted to hold her close. Curly’s gun has kept him away until now but maybe if he woke her up, maybe if he explained…

He takes one step in her direction and the door swings open again. Curly steps down the stairs off the porch, fully dressed, and he shakes his head, pity and tenderness in his eyes. He jogs over to her, his holster bobbing against his leg even now, and catches her in his arms, the way Jack wishes he could, and he shakes her with the gentlest touch he’s ever seen Curly use. 

“Hey, Laurey, c’mon angel, you gotta wake up now.” Her head lolls onto his shoulder before she stirs and looks up at him. “Hey Laurey,” Curly whispers, cupping her cheek, “what you doin’ dancing out here? Can’t dance out here with them nightmares of yours when you say there’s somebody watchin’ us.” 

Jack’s chest tightens. Nightmares. Someone watching. Do they see him? They can’t possibly see him. He hides anyway with his back to the tree, hot tears gathering in his eyes. He presses the heels of his hands into them, begging himself not to sob audibly. Of course. How could he have been so stupid, so naive to think that they wouldn’t be scared? She has nightmares about the night he dreams of. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it’ll always be. And if he crosses to her, Curly’s gun is waiting for him. Waiting to put another bullet in Jack and stop his heart for good. 

“It felt so real, Curly,” he hears Laurey say. “So real.” 

“I know. Them dreams always do. But this is real, okay? And I got you. I got you, darlin.” Jack squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t need to look to know what they do next. Their kiss is the loudest thing to him. He’d be able to hear it anywhere. Can’t think of nothing else. 

“Come on inside now,” Curly whispers when they break apart. He hears their footsteps retreating into the house, and he breaks down completely. He buries his head in his arms. How could he have been so so stupid? They will never want him, not his help, not his presence, not his arms. He fumbles with his bag and pulls out the paper and pen with shaky hands. He uncaps the pen with his teeth and tries not to sob too hard around it as he writes. His handwriting is messy, he’s rusty from lack of practice writing much, but he doesn’t need to say much to them. Not anymore. Large, hot tears roll down his cheeks and hit the page, and he decides to let them stay, even if they smudge the ink. 

He finishes writing and signs it with his initials before pausing. No. He won’t leave his initials. They deserve to know. He fills in the words with tinier letters between the larger ones, way his ma chided him not to when she learned him his letters. He recaps the pen and holds the paper to his chest, so briefly. He closes his eyes and lets himself dream of a world where Curly’s arms await him rather than his holster, where Laurey wants him to dance with her, where she’ll smile at him with her dark eyes. He sobs so hard and tries not to crumple the paper where he clutches it. He lowers it and reads over his note one more time. He presses his lips to the paper before looking around the trunk of the tree. The lights are still on, but they won’t see him coming. He’s certain of it. 

He makes his way up to the porch, trying to quiet his footsteps more than ever. He stops in front of the door and then pauses to take a deep breath before placing the paper on the ground, his hands trembling and his limbs shot through with tension. He lifts his hand to rap several times, just to give the dream one last chance.

He turns and bolts, jumping off the porch and running wildly into the night. He runs until his lungs burn and his chest erupts in terrible pain, but he pushes through, even though he could keel over. Tears stream down his cheeks, and he doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if the door ever opened. 

_Laurey and Curly I’m so sorry. It were all me, all this time. I never meant to scare you. I just wanted to help. I love you._

_-Jud Fry_


End file.
